Don't Be Dead
by musicality7437
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, Molly visits Sherlock's grave. Sherlolly, rated K for the teensy bit of violence. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

This is written post-Reichenbach, as if Molly was at Sherlock's grave, not John. Sherlolly. Enjoy :)

Disclaimer: The characters in this story are not mine (except Sam). Also, Molly's words at Sherlock's grave are not mine - they are John's from the actual episode.

Molly Hooper (she supposed she was Holmes now, but everyone kept calling her Hooper) wanted to cry every time she looked at her son. Even after all this time, she could barely keep it together. He had her features – her turned-up nose and small button mouth. But the dark, unruly curls he constantly blew out of his face could only have come from _him_. And she could tell that when he grew out of his chubby years, he would be just as tall, slight, and somehow terrifyingly imposing as his father.

But it was his eyes that hurt the most. Icy blue, though sometimes green or even grey, intense, penetrating, deducing –

Molly stopped that train of thought in its tracks. She would not think about him._ Stop it_, she told herself angrily. _It's done. Over. He wouldn't want you to be sad._

_ But the truth_, her mind whispered back. _You are sad. You miss him terribly._

The little boy startled her from her reverie. "Mummy, look!" he cried excitedly. He offered her a piece of green, jelly-like goop that she took gingerly, and was surprised when it held its form in her hand. "If I mix glitter glue with laundry detergent, the glue doesn't go all runny!"

Molly laughed. "That's brilliant, Sam," she said, and smiled. John had given Sam some sort of scientist kit for his fifth birthday, and the boy had been immediately fascinated. His father would be so proud.

She left the boy in the living room and went to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. As she passed the fridge, she forced herself to look at the calendar and acknowledge that today was the day. The…anniversary. She had been dreading it all week, but she knew she had to do it. Just as she had been faithfully doing every month for the last five.

"Sammy?" she called. "We're going to go visit Daddy."

Molly stood before the stone, Sam's small hand held tightly in her own. "Do you want to say anything to Daddy?" she asked gently, ruffling his curls.

Sam nodded. "I miss you, Daddy. I need you to help me with my science experiments." He turned to Molly. "When is Daddy coming back, Mummy?"

"Not for a very long time," she answered, and felt her heart break yet again at the sadness in his eyes. Those blue-green-grey eyes.

She spotted Andrew, the elderly caretaker of the cemetery, a few graves away. "Why don't you go talk to Andrew, honey? Mummy just needs to say some things to Daddy."

The little boy nodded. "Okay," he said, and skipped over to Andrew, who welcomed him with a hug. She could hear Sam's high-pitched voice intently explaining his latest experiments.

"Sherlock…" Molly began. A single tear trickled down her cheek, but she firmly wiped it away. She would _not_ do this, not again. "I… One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be –" she broke off, voice cracking. "Don't be dead."

She jumped at a deep baritone voice behind her. "All right," the voice said. "I'm not."

She turned slowly, hoping against hope that she was not dreaming, that this was not some sort of sick fantasy, her mind playing tricks on her –

He was there, real, tangible, blue-green-grey eyes penetrating into the depths of her soul. The hint of a smile played across his lips.

Molly's mouth dropped open. "Sherlock?"

He smiled. "Hello, Molly."

And then tiny, timid pathologist Molly Hooper gave Sherlock Holmes a resounding slap in the face.

Sherlock felt emotions cross his face, something that rarely happened – shock, then pain, then resignation as he realized that Molly deserved to slap him, after all she'd been through. But before he could open his mouth to say it, she was holding him, so tightly he could barely breathe, and sobbing desperately into his coat as if she would never let go.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks to anyone who read/reviewed/favorited/followed me! This was originally intended to be a one-shot, but I decided that it probably needs some closure (thanks Rocking the Redhead and apedarling)! Also shout-out to Freewaygirl who was the first to review my first story ever! I think this will be the final chapter though. Enjoy :)**

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"Sherlock," Molly sobbed as he wrapped his arms around her with his characteristic awkwardness. "Promise me you won't ever leave me again."

Sherlock raised her chin with one hand and looked her in the eyes. "Molly, we both know I can't promise that," he said sternly. "The statistical likelihood that I can promise you _anything_ is low, seeing as some things are... Out of my control."

Understanding surfaced in Molly's enormous brown eyes. She knew how hard it was for him to admit that he couldn't control everything. That he was human. "All right," she conceded, and buried her head in his chest.

The silence was broken by a small, high-pitched voice. "Daddy!" A small dark-haired blur raced across the grass and flung itself into its father's arms.

Sherlock smiled and held the boy close, already resigned to the fact that this particular scarf was going to need a good washing when they got home.

Sam sniffled. "Daddy, I missed you. Where did you go? You made Mummy sad."

Sherlock cringed. "Well, I had to go away for a bit. But I'm back now," he explained, hoping Sam would drop it.

No such luck. "I needed someone to help me with my experiments, Daddy. You made me sad, too." Sam was full-out crying now, little hands clinging to the shoulders of Sherlock's coat, tiny form shaking as he wept.

Sherlock shot Molly an alarmed look, since she was the one who normally dealt with Sam when he was less-than-pleasant. He had never really considered himself good with children, which, according to John, was accurate.

Molly returned his glance with a smirk. _Figure it out_, she seemed to say. _You owe me_.

Sherlock supposed he did. He stood completely still for a few moments, letting Sam exhaust himself, before running his hand through the boy's dark curls. "Sam," he said quietly. "I'm back now. It's all right." The little boy nodded and wiped his eyes and nose with Sherlock's scarf. A detached part of Sherlock's mind registered that he would most likely need a new scarf.

He felt Molly's smaller, softer hand slip into his as they made their way back to the gate of the cemetery. Sam was enthusiastically explaining his latest experiments as Sherlock listened with... Was that pride? He wasn't familiar enough with feelings to know. It was something he would have to get used to, he supposed.

Something had changed that day, he knew, the day he had jumped from the roof of St. Bart's. Because he had to save the people he cared about.

_Caring_ was not a word that was normally used to describe Sherlock Holmes. _Freak_, _psychopath _(he was a high-functioning sociopath – every time Anderson opened his mouth, he proved himself an idiot),even _fraud_, yes, but not _caring_. Mycroft had told him long ago that caring was a disadvantage, and on the roof of St. Bart's, he had begrudgingly realized that Mycroft was right. Because caring had put other people in danger, because of him.

By this point, Sam had realized that his father's mind was elsewhere. "Daddy?" he poked Sherlock in the cheek, startling him out of his reverie.

"Would you like to do some more advanced experiments, Sam?" The little boy's eyes widened in awe, and Sherlock grinned. He had found a kindred spirit at last.

Unfortunately, Molly had the uncanny ability to read his mind. "No, Sherlock, you are not going to allow Sam to experiment on the thumbs in the fridge. Or the eyeballs in the microwave."

Sherlock and Sam frowned identically as they chimed in unison: "But Molly-" "But Mummy-"

Molly shook her head firmly. "The answer is no. No negotiation."

"But why not?" Sherlock asked as he opened the door of the black car waiting for them by the road and deposited Sam in the back seat. "Of course I would supervise him, it's not as if I would let him handle the liquid nitrogen by himself -"

"Because!" Molly exploded. "Don't you think it's a little disturbing for a five year old to be experimenting on human thumbs?"

Suddenly he was kissing her, and she felt her anger dissipate. Oh, how she had missed him.

A small, high-pitched "Eww..." came from the back seat of the car and she giggled as she pulled away. Sherlock was similarly amused. "Molly. I was joking. Do you honestly think I would let Sam play with human thumbs?"

She regarded him for a second with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "One can never be too careful when it comes to Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
